This short story is inspired by Sonya’s photo prompt. It shouldn’t really be included in her Three Line Tales line-up since it’s more than three lines, but that’s the way it happened, and it seemed somehow disrespectful to shorten it. Her it is anyway, and I encourage you to follow the link to her site and read some of the stories that actually do stick to three lines.
She smiled as she worked and wove the bright orange wool, imagining the new baby crawling in his new romper suit. Not that she’d be seeing this one any more often than the older children. Her daughter found it hard to get over, and her husband had made it clear that he considered his mother-in-law a nuisance.
In the end, the new baby never got his romper. A stroke carried his grandmother off before it was finished, and his first and last visit to her house was not to crawl by the fire and play with the old cat, but to watch his mother, her eyes swollen with tears of regret, put things straight for the house sale.
Her husband let his hard, dry eyes wander round the little kitchen, still warm, the air still not settled into the silence of resignation. He picked up the abandoned bundle of knitting from the chair by the stove and tossed it into a plastic bin bag.
Another fucking horror we’ve been spared, he said to himself as he threw a stray ball of orange wool after it.